Smoke Gets In Your Eyes
by Signy1
Summary: A missing scene from 'Hogan, Go Home.' For the men of Barracks 2, the prospect of losing the Colonel is a tragedy; the prospect of getting Crittendon instead is a horror. For Hogan, the prospect of freedom is a dream come true; the prospect of leaving his men behind is a nightmare. The prospects were grim enough for all concerned *before* Crittendon set their clothing aflame...
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: This takes place directly after the Great Laundry Basket Flambé scene in 'Hogan, Go Home.'

Crittendon, a smug smile on his face, swept out of the barracks, leaving a stunned silence behind him. It meshed nicely with the stench of burning clothing and charred wicker. And of dashed hopes.

Newkirk, after a moment, said quietly, "Now ask me why I don't have much use for bloody officers, why don't you?" He rolled his eyes. "Blimey, I'm not sure if I should apologize on behalf on the RAF, the British Empire, or just 'umanity as a whole."

"It's not your fault," Hogan said after a moment. "It's mine; I should have been more careful about making sure that London was sending us someone with half a brain."

"Done is done," Kinch said. "It'll be all right, Colonel."

Hogan wanted to punch something. Or someone; he had a number of possibilities on his list. All right? What had London been _thinking?_ Crittendon couldn't command his way out of a wet paper bag, and that should have been blindingly obvious to anyone who'd ever spent more than ten seconds in his presence. Did the brass simply not realize? Not care?

This was the end of the operation. And worse. Crittendon was no kind of commanding officer; at his best he was— barely— qualified to warm a desk and keep a uniform from getting wrinkled. In a setup like the one here, he going to get the men all killed; there was simply no other way this could end. It was bad enough that Hogan was going home to play the conquering hero while his men sat in rickety plywood sheds eating lukewarm potato soup. Now he was abandoning them to the tender mercies of a man who would lose a battle of wits with a used handkerchief.

What the hell kind of commanding officer did that make _him_?

He had to do something. _Anything_. This could not be allowed to happen.

Newkirk had turned his attention back to the laundry hamper, pulling out a smoking rag that, once upon a time, might possibly have been his spare pair of uniform trousers. "Cor. Well, so much for appearing as an RAF corporal anytime soon. Gents, what do you think our beloved Kommandant would rather see me wearing at roll call tomorrow—a stolen Luftwaffe uniform or a set of civvies?"

"Why not go to roll call as Frau Newkirkberger?" Carter's grin was too innocent to be called a smirk and too mischievous to be called anything friendlier. "That would be a real change of pace."

"Dress up like a bird in the middle of a camp full of sex-starved prisoners. Brilliant idea, Carter. Just brilliant. Cheers. Why not wrap meself up in a bedsheet and go as Julius ruddy Caesar? At least 'e only 'ad to worry about getting 'imself _stabbed_ to death by 'is mates!"

Carter hunched his shoulders a bit, retreating into the comforting depths of his bomber jacket. "Well, heck, Newkirk, I guess you could do that if you wanted to, but don't you think it's a bit cold out there for just a sheet? I mean, especially in the morning; they make us get up so early that it's still dark, you know, so there's no sunshine to take the edge off—"

"Oh, why don't you shut your mouth before I do it for you, Andrew—"

Hogan thought he was going to be sick. He recognized a distraction when he saw one; Newkirk was good at what he did, but Hogan knew him too well to mistake the banter for anything but what it was. He had seen the distress in Hogan's face, and the vaudeville routine was his way of covering for his CO before anyone else saw it, too.

And it was working; taking the mickey was more or less an intramural sport in the camp, and if Newkirk was going to go to the trouble of pinning a bulls-eye on his own chest and passing out the metaphorical hand grenades, no one was likely to turn down the offer. The grim pall that Crittendon's idiocy had left in his wake began to dissipate as a lively discussion spread across the barracks. It seemed that several of the other residents had some creative ideas on how Newkirk might solve his little wardrobe difficulties, and were quite eager to share them. The simplest solution, of course, involved a sudden, unofficial, and, frankly, unwelcome transfer to another army, which might, by necessity, have included a battlefield promotion, as the US Air Corpsman who was closest to his size was a sergeant, and did not want the stripes cut from his sleeve. This was rejected almost immediately, both on the grounds that promoting Newkirk could be classified as a war crime, and furthermore that they could not risk the seismic disturbances that would no doubt ensue when George Washington, upon learning precisely who and what they had allowed into an American uniform, began doing barrel rolls in his grave. Several loyal subjects of His Majesty thought that while the former objection was inarguably valid, as regarded the latter, a spot of exercise might be just the thing for rebellious traitors.

Once they'd sufficiently rehashed the Revolutionary War, they examined other options. Unfortunately for Newkirk's pay grade, borrowing the only available Free French uniform even close to his size in Barracks Two would have broken him back down to private. Helpfully, LeBeau, secure in the possession of not one but two shirts, both emblazoned with his accustomed and hard-won corporal's stripes, took the opportunity to promise sweetly that he would not pull rank on him except in cases of the direst necessity, when there was absolutely no other alternative... unless, of course, he happened to feel like it. Kinch asked LeBeau if he really thought that Newkirk would be less insubordinate as a French flyer than he already was as a British one, and if so, why?

After _that_ conversational detour had been thoroughly dealt with, the brainstorming session moved on to considering a strategic, if unconventional, use of his cap while he simply laundered the uniform still in his possession, the one he was currently wearing, whenever such maintenance was deemed necessary. That particular suggestion was, reluctantly, tabled when somebody mock-solicitously pointed out that the weather was, as Carter had reminded them, quite cold. Undaunted, the idea sprang back to life, like a phoenix from the ashes, when somebody else theorized that, given the human body's tendency to turn blue when sufficiently chilled, there was a very good chance that Newkirk's skin would simply take on the appropriate RAF coloration before they were halfway through roll call, thus negating the entire problem. Given that Klink's eyesight wasn't exactly 20/20 to begin with, and especially given that their accustomed roll call shenanigans tended to fluster the colonel beyond all reason, Newkirk's being technically out of uniform might therefore go unnoticed.

Newkirk, who never let a little thing like being outmaneuvered, outnumbered, and outgunned worry him for too long, was giving as good as he got, of course, loudly and dramatically, but his eyes did meet Hogan's. Only for a moment, and only once, but that was long enough. _Don't you worry about us, Colonel_ , he was saying. _We'll all muddle through somehow._ It was the final straw.

Hogan couldn't stand it. As the conversation turned saltier, he left his men to their sport and their not-so-helpless prey, and walked back into his office. Depressed beyond words, he more-or-less collapsed onto the bottom bunk. What had he been thinking? Well, never mind that. He knew perfectly well what he'd been thinking. He'd been thinking of home, of his family, of hot showers, soft beds, and good food. Of doors that only locked when _he_ chose to fasten them, of not being (and not needing to be) periodically deloused like a stray dog, of owning more than one pair of boots. He'd been thinking of _women_. He'd been thinking of a view that didn't involve barbed wire, of not having to stand, cap humbly in hand, kowtowing to German idiots. He'd been thinking of freedom.

He'd been thinking of the sheer relief of not spending every waking (and sleeping!) moment waiting for the axe to fall. He'd been thinking of _not_ carrying the weight of three hundred lives around his neck, of not needing to outsmart the entirety of the Axis war machine five times a day, of not being expected as a matter of course to accomplish the impossible. He'd been bluffing with no cards in his hand for the better part of two years; sooner or later the odds were going to catch up with him, and he knew it. And yes, damn it, he was afraid of what would happen to him when they did.

He was tired. God, he was just so damned _tired_. There was a limit to what the human frame could withstand, and he'd more than exhausted a lifetime's worth of miracles in the course of a mere twenty-one months. He was a pilot, not a spy, damn it all; he wanted out of this pigpen and back into the sky. Back to things he understood, to altitude and wind resistance and vectors, to objectives that were clear and straightforward. Fly _this_ plane to _that_ destination and bomb _that_ target. Not hiding in shadows and crawling through tunnels, not pulling an endless string of rabbits from an increasingly threadbare hat. Not arranging missions around roll call and bed checks and assigned exercise periods. Not cobbling together vital equipment from scraps and garbage and prayer.

"Oh, boy—I've got it," came Carter's voice through the door. "We'll steal the flag from the roof of the guard tower; it's more than big enough for you to sew into a shirt and maybe a pair of pants, too. You'd look great in red!"

"And I think you'd look great black and blue," Newkirk growled, and they were off again.

Yes, he was tired of this camp, tired of this struggle, tired of this _war_. But this command, this motley crew of his… how could he abandon them? He had a sudden vision of the rest of his career, assuming they didn't simply kick him upstairs, chain him to a desk, and never let him see the inside of a cockpit ever again, which, it suddenly struck him, was actually a very real possibility. He'd spend the rest of his career trying to recreate the rapport he'd built here… and failing. War made for strange bedfellows; in the normal course of events, as he was bitterly aware, Kinch, his rock-steady 2IC, would have been hidden away in a segregated unit. Carter would never have been allowed _near_ explosives; who would have thought to look past that slightly daffy surface to find the mad genius beneath? As for mouthy French chefs and even mouthier English cracksmen… well, the less said the better. On paper, they sounded like a disaster waiting to happen. But in the breach, where it mattered, they worked together like a symphony or a psalm. Despite the incongruities, this was the sort of team every commander prayed for, and few of them ever got.

And Crittendon didn't deserve it. He wasn't good enough, he for damn sure wasn't smart enough, and he could not be allowed to sully it.

Kinch slipped in. "Sorry to disturb you, Colonel…?"

"No, no; it's fine. What's going on out there?"

"Well, let's see, sir. LeBeau and Newkirk are refighting the Battle of Hastings, Olson's still trying to drum up support for the idea that _everyone_ should appear in the wrong country's uniforms tomorrow and see how long it takes Klink to notice, and there's a lot more enthusiasm for sending Newkirk out in the altogether than I'm entirely comfortable with. He's probably going to have to sleep in his clothes tonight, because there's too good a chance that they won't be here in the morning if he doesn't."

Hogan found a chuckle. "I could almost find it in my heart to feel sorry for Klink. Roll call tomorrow is going to be a humdinger."

"For _Klink_? What's he got to complain about? His uniform's pristine, and he's got that nice warm coat with the fur collar." Kinch pretended to think about it. "Maybe we should steal _that_ for Pete."

 _Why not? They can bury him in it_ , Hogan thought bitterly.

"Of course, he's not the only one who's going to need a bit of help until we can get some fresh uniforms from the Red Cross. Just the noisiest," Kinch continued.

"And in other news, the sky is blue," Hogan agreed. "Okay, once everyone settles down a bit, get them all to inventory the damage and we'll see what we can scrape up from the other barracks."

Kinch smiled. "Will do, Colonel."

Hogan didn't smile back. After slightly too long a pause, he began, "Look, Kinch…"

"It's all right, Colonel. Really. It's all right. You deserve the chance to get out of here."

"I can't just… Crittendon! This is insane!"

"Colonel, you've more than done your share. You've been here almost two years."

"So what? You've been here longer than that. Hell, Newkirk's been here for more than four."

"None of us were in command. It's different, and you know it. Colonel, don't get me wrong. It's not that any of us want you to go… but we're all glad for your sake that you're going. You've earned it."

"All of us have."

"I won't argue with that. But you're the one who carried this whole crazy scheme on your shoulders all this time. London's gotten their money's worth."

"And they figure maybe it's better for me to get out of the business while I'm still batting a thousand, is that it?"

"Maybe, Colonel. I don't know. Look, you've taught us a lot. We can manage. Even with Crittendon. And after the war, we'll come meet you in London. Go to one of those pubs Newkirk's always reminiscing about. We'll be fine."

Hogan knew that Kinch was blowing smoke to make him feel better; Kinch knew that Hogan knew. They looked at each other and traded identical, pained, smiles.

"Right. After the war," Hogan said after a moment. "First round's on me."

"We'll be there," Kinch promised.

There didn't seem to be much left to say after that.


	2. Chapter 2

As promised, here's the aftermath of the Great Laundry Basket Flambe incident from Colonel Crittendon's viewpoint. Just as an aside, even though, in the show, he's always referred to as a Colonel, I'm going to restore his rank of Group Captain. I'm caught between the devil and the deep blue sea on this one; either I can go with the show's internal continuity, or I can be historically and culturally accurate, but not both. And since neither of those things were the show's strong suit, there's really no right answer. So history wins, at least for today.

OoOoOoOoO

The Group Captain swept out the door, the very picture of smug self-assurance, at least until the door swung shut and the men inside could no longer see him. At which point he curled his hand into a fist and bit down on it, hard. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ … how could he have cocked it up so very badly, so very quickly?

He'd made sure that the orders were safe in his secret pocket at least a dozen times. That was the problem. He'd sewn so many secret pockets, in so many places, and switched the orders from one to the other, trying to be certain that they would remain safe and undetected, so many times, that he'd clean forgotten which one he'd ended up using. But he'd found them, eventually, and the whole thing could have been laughed off, passed over, if he hadn't then decided to be clever and burn the orders.

In a laundry hamper.

A _wicker_ laundry hamper.

He hadn't meant to set the whole bally thing on fire. It had been an accident. Just an accident. The sort of accident that might have happened to anyone.

Except that it never _did_ happen to anyone besides him, did it? No, if something was going to go completely pear-shaped, it was always a safe bet that Group Captain Rodney Crittendon was to blame, somehow. Every time. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he cared, it always ended up the same way. In shame, failure, and disgrace, with the sour smell of plans going up in smoke in his nostrils.

From inside the hut, he heard that unmistakable Cockney drawl. "Now ask me why I don't have much use for bloody officers, why don't you? Blimey, I'm not sure if I should apologize on behalf on the RAF, the British Empire, or just 'umanity as a whole."

Crittendon's eyes widened in shock. And hurt. _You're British!_ _You're supposed to be on_ _ **my**_ _side!_

He'd expected a little bit of resistance from the others. Only natural, in the case of the two sergeants. Hogan was a Yank, after all, one of theirs, and it was only natural that a man liked to be commanded by one of his own countrymen. And who could ever fathom the mind of a Frenchman? But Newkirk… Newkirk was British. A son of old England. Like him. And Crittendon had expected more from him, somehow.

Although, looking back, and getting angrier by the moment, he wasn't sure why. He conjured up the memory of the man, that insolent grin on his face, refusing to leave the boundaries of the camp. Refusing a direct order to follow him, Crittendon, a group captain and the man's rightful commander. Tossing off a salute so disrespectful that he might as well have flipped the bird and been done with it, and all but laughing out loud as he flouted Crittendon's authority. Citing Hogan, who 'preferred that they stay' in the stalag.

Hogan. Crittendon set off across the compound, because it was that or stand outside the door of Barracks Two with his hat in his hand, begging for whatever scraps of respect they cared to toss him, like a stray cat on the doorstep. Always Hogan. Hogan had everything Crittendon had ever wanted, and it wasn't fair. It simply wasn't fair. Hogan had an impeccable record and a flawless success rate. Hogan had quick wits and a gift for strategy. Hogan had the confidence of everyone who had ever so much as brushed shoulders with him in a busy corridor. Hogan had men who would follow him into Hell.

Crittendon had none of those things. Crittendon had _never_ had any of those things. And he wanted them. Good God, how he wanted them! Especially the last. More than he wanted life itself, he wanted men who would look to him the way Hogan's did. He wanted their respect. Their fidelity. Their willingness to give their all. Their confidence that he would take care of them, would bring them safely through the trickiest of missions and pull everything off just so.

He wanted those things. He wanted to deserve those things. He wanted to be the sort of commander who merited his men's loyalty—not just their obedience, their genuine loyalty. He wanted what Hogan had.

He wanted to _be_ Hogan.

And London was giving him the chance to do just that. London believed in him. They _did_. They were giving him this command, weren't they? Hogan would be gone in a day or so, gone back to the States to sell bonds. Out of Stalag 13, out of the war, far, far away, goodbye, good riddance, and best of luck to him. Crittendon would be here, would be in unquestioned command. He would be the leader of the finest sabotage and intelligence group in the entire bally war. He would finally get the chance to do his part, to make a real difference, and, by Jove, he would _earn_ the respect of his men if it killed him.

Even impertinent Cockneys. Even puppyish demolition men. Even charming American colonels with a hidden sting in their voices. All of them. He was Group Captain Rodney Crittendon, by gad, and he was going to make that mean something.

He was going to make that mean something beyond sheer mind-boggling stupidity and carelessness. He _would_. He'd show them all—he was just as good as Hogan.

Almost.

Sometimes.

Wasn't he?

OoOoOoOoO

Author's note: As is, I suppose, fairly obvious, I feel a bit sorry for Crittendon. He's such an idiot, and I think he knows it. He spends pretty much every moment of screen time he has trying to outdo Hogan, either by pulling rank, or by outright attempting to emulate him- his commando unit being a prime example. He wants, so damned badly, to prove that he's clever, that he's worth following, and after a while it's almost pitiful to watch.

Mind you, I feel a great deal sorrier for anyone who actually _did_ end up under his command, because the ones who weren't killed outright were captured, recaptured, or re-recaptured, but that's a whole nuther story.


End file.
